


Swirling Wreaths of Darkness Within; Chronology of Nigel Lecter

by nigellecter (orphan_account)



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Past Sexual Abuse, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: A man who is DEADLY as he is beautiful, SORROWFUL as he is headstrong and THRILLING as he is calm is not a MAN to face the light of day.He’s MURDEROUS, with deathly debonair charm, with hands like fireworks and bones like adamantine, with so much electricity and thunder in his core. He’s destructively BEAUTIFUL, with a commanding presence. Born to breathe Bucharest’s desolate hate.Even in his heart there was a lullaby, a beautiful undying song, left unsung to the world to hear and see. A wounded creature seeking loving arms, something that would embrace him out of the shadows and raise him above clouds to illumination of love. Even the harbinger of Death, had a soul well hidden, only visible to those who were unwilling to be blind of his ways, of the destruction. Those who were willing to see the fucking beauty of the Haymaker.He’s a shooting star, brighter than the lights in the deserts of the world, highway signs that takes him home. This is where he learns to love again, in his solitude, in his place of light.





	1. Chapter 1; A flame alight beneath the approaching midnight

Perhaps the worst part of Nigel’s life is that **he cannot let all of his memories go** ; he knows it’s because they are _stitched_ together by space and time and the blood red thread interwoven from the veins he long stripped from his body. How they remain soft and supple, beneath the unmarred flesh that had been long made brittle by coalescing frigid hardness and infernal rifts caused by amalgamations of emotions, but mostly HATRED.

 

Though hatred is such a _subjective_ thing; for not many deserves Nigel Lecter’s hatred, because his fucking life has been less of old records playing songs that would fade into obscurity before the night ended, but of such _bloody disparate_ **cacophony** that constantly hoovered around his eardrums. Yet, he hates winter, specifically, the in-between moments of fall and winter where he would fill all the cultivated wrath of granules of cold culminating to imprison him in a box of their house.

 

Doomed by **passion** and its absence, having been completely forgotten how to do the things he loves the most. Nights deceive him the most, though he finds the most solace as his languishing gaze burns beneath the **lost silhouettes** of love, with all of his burnt photographs wedged into the yellowed corners of his thoughts.

 

He let the inconsequential crowd of people get in his fucking way, let them affect and screw over what’s been already _convoluted_ and _contorted_ into an inevitability. Yet he would not place a fault upon himself 100%, but such **destructive** and **nihilistic** measure could have been prevented. He had exposed himself around other humans for the purpose of the HUNT, let alone naked and raw without a glimpse of veil as the **day he was born** , in broad starlight beneath the silvery moon on the most clear day of November.

 

Painfully aware that he would be of the second Lecter in making. However he looked at his most **vulnerable** , there is no fear in his heart; just a bashful HEAT to his blood that would constitute and give a glimpse of what to come. He is born Nigel Egan Lecter, with the _greenest_ eyes resembling the **evergreen verdant forest** surrounding the cliff-high Dvaras, with the **silhouette** of his agglomerated shadow eclipsing the gentle light with ethereal form beneath the throes of his exuberance. How he reflects the garnet fire contained beneath Hannibal’s eyes, _magnanimously offsetting_ the fire with earth, almost silken, holy and unreal.

 

How karma had dictated their roles to be entirely _switched_ , for Nigel would be the one that would hold **anyone captive** with his glare, eyes screaming tales of _endurance_ and _commitment_ , such fervor of passion that would hurtle and crackle like the most stubborn ember of all beneath a bed of coal. With the rustle of the leaves against the wind and the crackle of the ones fallen and underneath his feet, underneath the intertwined branches and twigs.

 

For his story become projected in front of his eyes across the _blinding cerulean_ , along the diamond-scattered lake a well distance below. A picture-perfect, yet with an atmosphere full of **ominous poignancy** of the never-perturbed stretch of time contained beneath the fertile earth.

 

He still remembers perfectly clearly the image right outside his side of the window; and that is one of the first thing he remembers, as clear as a day, despite it being evermore **ritualistic** and **torturous** to imagine. How it continues to echo in his mind, but he’ll never consider his future in remote resemblance taking its place. The cramped bed where Hannibal’s steady coalescing of warmth and breath warm against the valley of his barely covered back, despite having their individual beds by the opposite wall of their shared room. All the stumbling slant of penumbras dancing in choreography of the deep night, soaked in raindrops and comforting blackness, despite the books having suggested otherwise.

 

In the _overlap_ between the networks of limbs (of theirs), there was also the same _network_ of two oak trees; and he perceives an empty shape of sky, which appeared at some angles cervine and at others equine. And his expansive mind would grow and grow, with the bright mind absorbing anything and everything - and yes, he may prefer the eldritch stories and its fantastical worlds full of brave souls and warriors to more academic pursuits, yet his knowledge and its **capabilities** and **scopes** grow proportional to what Lecters had been known for; its cunning and remarkably brilliant minds.

 

The nights became clearer and clearer, beneath the **unperturbed silence** beneath the familiar ceiling. Sometimes he would see it _leap_ and _bound_ around the edges of his unconscious, just before letting the threading grasp of attentiveness go. Its night blue body of SPECTERS emblazoned with the haunting, half-shut eye of the moon turning into the familiar gaze. The frigid landscape of lengthy winter of Lithuania continues to howl, relaying memories full of tumultuous instability and anomaly. Fruitful and bountiful in warmer seasons, while it could kill in a second’s impact upon the long, desolate blackness of incessant snowfall.

 

Akin to _candles_ _aglow_ , scattering of rose petals and a bottle of bubbles. Incessant bubbles and unbearable heat slow dancing upon the atmosphere as his weary gaze would remain entirely TRANSFIXED. Cold fingers, on the verge of being severed beneath the unrelenting streak of howling wind, with the same cold toes but with warm hearts and stomachs. The verticality of the trees invite and challenge Nigel’s _little_ , _developing_ mind; with the smell of the dirt pressed into the soles of his feet as his slender, yet wiry with defiance fingers would wrap and clutch around the roughened, sleek bark. He would try and try and try, until the flashbacks in his flushed and aching palms would feel as numb as his entire **corporeality**.

 

He is all too well aware of its consequences, yet they escape through his fluttering exhales as he would break his record a little by little; he is rather **svelte** ; with a zealous mind of a _mischievous_ , _adventurous_ kid with a penetrating gaze of a untamed, feral beast. His uncharacteristically intense aura would seep through the clumps of blanketing snowfall and scatter all of his existence over his siblings’ head. No matter what, he’d always challenge the day, **seize** it until he’s _wringing_ it beneath his strengthening grasp.

 

And a resounding sense of thrill, the first onslaught of adrenaline he’d ever feel flares his nerves, makes them swollen as embers crack. And the static feed of his conscious threatens to drench beneath such impervious blackness. For he embodies that **finite spark** inside of his ribcages. His has been known to start fires, yet his skin barely kindles. With the barely peering sun shining, yet remaining in overcast like a cloud looking over his head; big, puffy and grey, it would leave him with an **irreversible feeling** of that _impending doom_ approaching in any second now, for the sky will open up and he will be left to drown.

 

Or, the sky could **rupture** as he would be flying. All in the midst of _clambering_ and _scampering_ , living and breathing as he becomes ensorcelled as if he had been a protagonist in a magnificent movie. Let him fly, as he would silently drift off to the solitary world of his unwinding dreams. Overstimulated everything and his adventurous, mischievous soul has to rest.

 

Flying.

 

Flying.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Until the delirium persists and beneath the gelid whiplash of the approaching snowstorm, he would feel a familiar warmth of Hannibal’s back. Beneath the teetering awareness and impending oblivion, he would feel the potency of combustible flare of gnawing fire within the comfortable silence which floats in the air, between numerous voices. Yet, no fear would grasp hold of him, even when salty tears pour down his fragile face and his tender limbs would give up the fight. The roaring waves may claim their victory, yet his determination is less gentle and not merciful. He will prevail over the weakness and he would make sure he would submerge himself in the prospect of triumph.


	2. Chapter 2; Curiosity acknowledges the Demon in front of him

All the **violent hues** of his fire burning through the glassy, fogged-up eyes of _apathy_ , consumes his entirety. Just as it had been, perhaps the root of the **crimson redness** had been harbingered by the devouring pain. Just as he would begin smoking, the exquisite lull of nicotine calming his nerves to mask the same **devastation** to be removed. The particular strand of this memory is _exquisite_ , yet causes him to become borderline delusional with feral ravegeness. _Soulless and bent on self-destruction_ , the coinciding truths, no matter how painful it becomes; for pain has been the **agent of his life** or **death**. A harbinger of his shaping.

 

The weight becomes more severe and heavier than the rustic revolver in his palm. With nothing left, with nothing to lose. All the _facade_ ; the _lie_ ; the _death_ had been removed from his face as sorrow overlaps joy, forlorn sadness overlaps contentment of what used to be. Maybe in another life, if fate decides to be a kinder soul, then maybe he will come to face Mischa - without marred colors that had already been rotted beneath the clutch of his fingers. As **regurgitated memories** surface with gradually aggravating potency and clarity. And he translates the same colors, the same propensity for cruel savageness into the matter of his own hands.

 

With agony of desire, tormented by that **special friction** of lust and love. With a drop, a sting of shed ink, he would hear the echo of her name - yet he wants to _rip_ her from his bones. With all of his nightmares of her and the orphanage on the scrawled and already impressioned pages on the verge of being ripped apart. All the knuckle punches, the whiplashing slaps ricocheting in-between his senses; _alive, spoiled, unwanted,_ filled with _colors_ and _enigma_ as it echoes further into the bone arena of his skull. They shatter him, yet reunite his resistance in absolute stubbornness. For he lives in a world where **distant imagination** becomes home and move like a feast.

 

His will, inevitably receded. All light inside of him is ravenously consumed by the swirling wreaths of darkness within, originated from yearning hope. Shattered to a transparent, raw vulnerability. But still, his chest aches with cold every time the memories loom over like the thickest fog merging two horizons together. Perhaps the worst past is that he can’t let himself go; the broken shards tucked away behind layers and layers of copper resin, with the **fortifications** of thorns dipped in _poison_. It stings his forehead, but he will hold onto his royalty through any pain.

 

Its presence is like a vice around his ribcage, crushing his lungs into diamond. The rest of the world is on a _lower dose_ of reality and FEAR than he is and the thought summons a **dull, chronic ache** behind his eyes. Letting his nose touch as he embraces the blossoming memory unfurling under the candlelit sky. The light would travel SO FAR OUT, for so long, until they would find enough _substance_ , _subsistence_ to Nigel and his brother’s threatened life.

 

He can always endure the **hurt** , even as when it rises and grinds against his already battered and bruised form. Beneath all the perpetual malfunction of his misdirected anger and defiance and stubbornness of a bull, this pain inside him crawls, like a serpent. As he distances himself from it as the coldness of his emotions seep into every inch of his being. He would embody **melancholic darkness** then, seeking refuge away from the bullies and all the other children sharing the relatively same fate. No howling wind would pull him in and embrace his fearlessness, for the nights offered him absolute clarity and honesty. Without false assurance, without chicanery.

 

The unfurled landscape of the night floats with the stars over the edge of his consciousness; dipping and soaring, ascending and descending, tossing and turning, rustling and whispering and blowing at the mercy of the _prevailing wind_. Strained breaths squeeze out from his constricted lungs as his half-open hazel penetrates through disheveled locks, plastered haphazardly against his prominent cheeks.

 

His own blood, sweat along with the stifling heat intermingle with his **heavy exhaustion** as a scalding trail of fresh crimson trails the curve of his side as nimble fingers finish the threading through the pre-existing _perforations_ of the suture line. Gradually, the lightheaded feel of colossal waves wavering through the cranium becomes a gentle rippling motion, as his own voice that stems through the unlucid palpitation becomes much more clarified than being a voice from another realm, almost _untranslatable_.

 

His waterfall thoughts continue to daze in haze, as he recalls the impervious sash of the _deep_ , trenchant woods below. How his jolting demeanor, reflecting his _brave_ , _fearless_ self as of now had gotten him in so much trouble. With the colors of fire-mottled gashes digging deep into his calves as he valiantly fought with the oppressive caretakers at the orphanage, he would often seek comfort beneath the array of sparkling stars and sickle moon, making home out of his inner wars which haunted his sleep - for _violence_ and _affliction_ had made his bed their battlefield, for the dominance of his reverie.

 

How each night had offered Nigel and Hannibal to scale these _barricades_ , to fleetingly liberate themselves to resolve the pain and permit peace. For Nigel, to calm the storm of his **uncontrollable rage** , embedded within such fervency of his hazel. Cracks widening, with forlorn desolation, the emptiness phrasing harrow insomnia as what used to strengthen him with such breaths of life tears the pages of the siblings’ unfinished chapters. There, his heart would sempiternally **dangle** , _imprisoned_ by a blistering heart as crystallized breaths would sing its steady cadence, of requiem towards his ravaged sister.

 

And when his eyes are able to be forced shut and sleep is prayed for, _still_ , thunder crashes against his throat and the lightning can be felt as it carves branch-like patterns of his past that creep into the crepe paper of his eyelids. How he wants to float and be ethereal, but his propensity lies in being solid, dangerous. A mystery that’s open to everybody, that’s been held upright by the universe in his veins and the trenchant sun in his eyes.

 

THWACK, only the distant sound of misguided miscreants’ slaps convolute his reality to live with them. How he wishes to reduce them into the pulverized puddle. Of static imagery of Mischa reduced beneath a pit of desiccated bones, gnawed and stripped clean of meat. The **magnitude** of the discovery, he couldn’t ever bare it to be _manifested_ and _materialized_ . His own skin, fleeting from the corrupted vines to which his crimson blood courses through, he continues to battle between still-innocent perceptive child of thirteen to a maniacal monster wanting to string them all up to the gallows to suffocate and decapitate them. The violent hues of fire becomes his **beaten heart** , down to pulp and a soul of debris.

 

A resounding sacrifice, for he had burned and burned until there had been nothing left, not even ash. The sweet sting of blisters and skin scarred from too much heat couldn’t be alleviated by his fire. And he’s on the verge of _resolution_ , his breakdown. How this long winding road will always bring him back to Hannibal. How he had been an endless wanderer on that very rooftop, for he had been less burdened with the weight of uncertain future and the _weariness_ lying beneath the resolute stubbornness of a capricious child; quick to anger, defying conventions and rules, Lecters were the thing of the talk; he was sure of that even after he fled from such **pandemonium**.

 

The windowpanes still echo Mischa’s name, reminding him of the dark blue the way she left him. How they peel and wither, just like her unblossomed, still effervescent beneath his subconscious figure had simply vanished. When he sowed her against the fertile soil that was his expansive mine, never had he expected the **karmic intervention** to steal her beauty, her life to be tossed it away like scum. And that had painted his expansive world with grayness for days, entrapped in _autumn silence_ as clouds shifted through shadows and mists of his mindscape, illuminating once-empty fields beneath the perturbed solace of mourning sadness. She remains _only_ in his dreams; as a **blissful mirage**. Still, she exists OUT OF HIS REACH, for the sands of time have been unkind.

 

The night sky is soft, is quiet, it is only them who will move without fail, without pause for breath. How the sudden cracking of a whipping wind caresses his face with a burning touch and the sound of the crashing and swallowing undulations of it fills the air with such an immense white noise, _flattening_ _out_ like smog. As it sails past the horizon, the once-scabbed knuckles bleed once again, as charged hazel overbrims with emotion-ridden tear.


	3. Chapter 3; Captured, engaged, but never committed

His foundation had been cracked and worn, despite with Mischa’s unmarred, porcelain skin with floating golden hair, with a dress akin to a white shawl trailing behind in the wind. He rebuilds her from the wreckage of gnawed bones and scattered pit of ashes and soot over and over in his nightmares. How she becomes a  **colosseum** held together by sticks and stones and bandages and he’s forever  **captured** , as a  _ bright, white smile _ draws him into her gaze. Urging him to smile back as he engages beneath the gentility of calm touch, pulling him into a loving hug.

 

Until she BURSTS; absent of her light, _ his nova in spectrum _ . She becomes such an  **obscurity** , _ a fading thing _ . And he’s reduced into  **lonesome singularity** once again. And he will bear witness to an audience of wilted flowers, bones and wooded pine. His own corporeality would be raggedly torn between the realm of the confining walls and quagmire beneath him, the putrescent spectacle of his own flesh and blood mingled as if thousands of razors had ripped through him and the reality had been simply, something that scrambled his brain - without the coziness of the warmth resonating from his side, without the unperturbed solitude that will engulf him and lead him so far away.

 

Despite the  _ familiarity  _ of Hannibal’s pressed form against his slouched spine. The world remains **too wild** for Nigel to grasp, for it transcends what he cannot control. It’s less of a  _ fear  _ that drives him off the transient comfort of the night, passing in seconds while the day lingers in tortuous length. For loneliness is embraced like a **long, lost friend** and he carries its weight on his shoulders like  **Atlas** ; he cannot fathom to make this an eternity.

 

Beneath the silence of dusk, tethered by the whispering breeze is a ghost made translucent by blinding eyes and deaf ears - _ a grey specter _ longing to be heard, to be understood and accepted. His own body and mind liberated by multitude locked-up hearts encased inside flesh and bones. He lives in a war zone, with bullies wrapped in apathy and indifference, uncaring for anyone, but  **themselves** . It’s as if they have a fiendish obsession with the Lecters, as they incessantly hover around them like bursting fireflies, with virulent tongues intermingled with sharp razor blades, drifting down, threatening them even their existences had faded away beneath the slanting darkness of the dusk.

 

And of the things he lets blow away last winter. His gaze  _ tinges _ with the frost of the chill, conveying both  _ frailty  _ and  **adamant mercilessness** . Nigel is such an embodiment of inextinguishable fire even when young; it’s so violently alive and it’s literally eating away at him. His  _ flesh _ , his  _ sanity _ , his vivid recollections of fleeting  **contentment** ; of their mom’s rustic, rich and succulent cooking to their father’s classy, yet rough pastime of hunting in the wintry wonderland. He didn’t fancy particularly of watching the viscera spill upon the unperturbed snow as Hannibal had been, yet he could revel in the **grandeur of the view** from the biggest and tallest tree he could imagine as a ten-year-old as he breathes air like how he’s supposed to do. And soon, it would become the psalm of his aura, permeating his walls that rot amidst the thawing of his heart; as his form would dissolve in abundance, melting. Met with  **approbation** of his candor and beauty.

 

Now he’s merely excreting the waste as ash and emits carbon and cinders as he  **disintegrates into the night** . His spilling emotions become the multitudes of thousands of voices, his own voices piling up on top of each other as they become a continuous cry. And he refuses to be rendered and reshaped beneath the absence; laws of conscience and morality. For his discerning and perceptive nature does not need a sun to bloom; he can bloom by himself.

 

With a requiem upon his wrecked sorrow as the melody soars up to a peak, only to swing down again like a  _ pendulum  _ as his body moves. Now, his low, grieving murmur of his voice is barely audible upon his fluttering chest and scalding tears of lava contouring through his red, defined cheeks. How all the stars intermingle with tongues of said fire from the fireflies blaze beneath the starlight, with the expanse of the vast solitude of his FORMER residence faded away. How a perfect ink blotches of  **blackness** would swallow him up and hide him. And he would give into the  _ inky darkness _ as often as possible - where figurative and literal were woven indistinguishable. For he means this separation, a distillation of his resounding stubbornness to avoid single forceful draining of his sanity.

 

His obsession with  **reciprocating violence** and spilling more and more emotions until he’s drawing into the reserve of his heart could be the  _ vanity  _ that would close the gap between him and the graves; homesick and fading, as poignant eyes would trail the familiar stark outline of the  _ Lecter Dvaras _ , tugged besides verdant pine forest, atop a high precipice looming over an expansive lake below. So he should become a wolf with bounded agenda; hazel eyes without dilation. All the boiled burns exemplified beneath such fruition. Hanging off the edge, dancing with his demons, the darkness of his mind unfurling one very night.

 

With calculative measure as his less than pristine mind piles on all the unceremonious dirt, slit and sanctimony, beneath the disillusion of a perfect world continues to ravel. He would wait until absolute silence would leave him all alone. The thing he loves the most about the darkness is that it enjoys its conspicuous nature; it’s ABSTRACTNESS,  _ molding  _ and  _ shape-shifting _ .  **Teetering his sanity** , hiding behind life’s every corner. The worst thing about the the darkness is that he could stand in the expanse of the landscape of his mind,, calling it by name and it could come around the corner and he wouldn’t even recognize it. Or COULD HE?

 

Now fast forward a few decades, through his strong jaw, the hotness aggravates further with the chill seeping through the ground. The swollen lids throb with  **yearning nostalgia** , a pang becoming much more ravenous as his finger clutches what seems to be still warm rumpled sheets, still baring their presence as if they had parted the mold for only a few minutes. He was frail back then and no promises could have kept him there. He found himself full of wanderlust and a want for escape from the cold, following the deer trails through the forest until his lips would threaten to bleed and he couldn’t use her name in a sentence without saying “ _ was _ ” right after. For his mind was getting out of control, running all through the night, sleep becoming even more so an another dream. Incoherence replacing his blood as nothing would placate his rising violence, threatening to  _ rupture  _ and  _ disembogue  _ and further macerate him with blood.

 

He could care less.

 

_ She WAS his sister. She WAS half his charge, Hannibal WAS talking to him, now he isn’t anymore. Despite her being not his offspring, despite the twins having shared the same propensity, the same degree of trauma. Such fucking flawless thing that had been taken and it remains the blazing fire that ignited his bones with unparalleled passion and diligence. For she had been lain across hot coal for men who have paid no heed nor gratitude. And no amount of rivers of shed tears that had vanished into the quicksand of his absolute silence, his misery unbeknownst to the weary travelers of the world would become understandable beneath the armor, thinned over time, NEVER hiding his monstrous intent. _

 

When he was younger, even younger than now with nights as mind-numbing medications he bear, he had never understood it when people talked about  **lost loves** , loves that could have been, but  _ never _ came to be. He never understood it. Never. Probably because he had always been a firm believer that if two people are meant to be together, then somewhere somehow, they will be  **together** .

 

The duration of such  _ naivety _ cut profoundly short despite him doing whatever it takes, because that’s what love does to a person; making the  **impossibility** somehow  _ possible _ . How he had let himself to be deceived upon such knowing deception, despite never understanding conflicted emotions. And that continues to take away his sense of self, take away any semblance of his personality. It should be fine, for it’s not a  **fatality** , yet it is more than enough to keep his heart constricted, reducing him beyond the crystallized tears. Yet, the unshed tears don’t help to pour his sadness out and causes him to consume every damned thing he has in his arsenal. The moon lays its light like a silver ribbon across his cheek and there’s no reviving this fucking sinking ship. For he’s the one wrecking its deck and he could only make of all the flowing sawdust, thickening in the  **absence of peace** as the ache of the diminishing footprints beneath the mountainous waves of darkness disappear; and like a tinge of smoke, Nigel Lecter is gone.


	4. Chapter 4; Carnal, precarious surrender on gravel of incontinence

For him,  **pain** is a raveled deceit packaged in his weary heart robbed of relief and belief, for mayhem like a treacherous blind storm burns his eyes as he gazes into bright nothingness. Only for him to wander almost piously in circles, pleading for a fantasy to escape his escapade turned  _ precarious _ , only to be further bruised and ravaged beneath a  **gravel of incontinence** . Pain accentuates the contentment of his fading recollections and further paints his heart with a defiant reverberation; a will for just one more day, one more week and one more year.

 

He belongs to all the essence of those moments, not on things like  **looming death** and an  **escapism** . For he allows himself to wander in space and time so much more than to feel gravitated to the realness of the world. He plummets into all the  _ senselessness _ , as his form would curl like smoke, suspended in the still air amidst the expanse of the cement wall on the verge of demolition. How further  **pain** and  **destruction** sears into his glimmering form as it sparkles with dreadful sweat and tears. The ones that would crystallize over weeks and months at time.

 

His body is vacant, his brain fills with details and freckles of ink where his untold story needs life - swelling and agglomerating every inch of his flaring cranium. Leaving a  **retrospective pause** ; memories of a forgotten love and the certain stories that aren’t supposed to have open ends - _ of his childhood _ . And such memories swell and flare beneath the coursing cocktail, running through his veins and stimulating an almost heartbeat. He skips a few - his pupils dilate to the bitter light of reality shining to his face. He’s  **shackled** by his own fucking mind,  **inebriated** by his past he can’t let go of, which keeps him trapped. He smells of salty tears and violated sleep. He imagines  _ fabricated feelings  _ and _ lucid memories _ that do not exist. As he lay on the floor, with all the pathos of misunderstandings form the floor, the thinned veil of curtains and grimed windowsill, molded ceiling and the thundering rain still knocking at the door, calling his name like mantra.

 

As he suppresses indignant and incoherent breaths of exhales - held beneath the lips of dead roses and chests full of pain. The hair of his skin would rise, pain stricken, paralyzed by a gnawing fear staring down at him as he barely stands in front of the mirror and look into his eyes. He sees someone else - for he is not supposed to be a  **manifestation** of the broken pieces held beneath and buried somewhere in memory. He’s not a  _ reenactment  _ of his  **deprivations** , he was supposed to be a **constant breath** , alight in his lungs as fervent flame, turning to smoke over the hazed future. When he does find the strength and will to prevent himself from drowning from whatever it is flooding in his head and blinding his vision to walk out  _ untouched _ , without much trace from what has happened like an unusual reckoning of life, he carries his past like a  **horrible stench of something dying** \- perhaps it had been a doe’s carcass, long gone from the world that had been surrounded by the thorns of the world. It continues to lurk in shadows, watching through shards of glass, through the  _ remnants  _ of a  **shattered window** . And his starved longing heart finds something entirely else; at least there’s a glimpse of basking in comfort, albeit  **transient** .

 

His heart isn’t quite black by the  **unforgiving blazing hea** t, weaving heavily upon like beads of mercury as each drop threads through every inch of his skin, a rush of sinking sensation, into an  _ unfathomable abyss  _ as an incinerating blaze, like the inside of the kiln sweeps through the lower half of his body. How his eyelids shut within the  **drab neon** of the ragged club, to cover his hurt and mask the chaos within, as his limping body would often press against the confines of the lecherous aura, the taller man‘s rough, whip-like and coiled arm sweeps his limping figure like a broken rag doll. And his stomach turns into tsunami of waves crashing into the margins of his throat; as if the ever winding tubes and knots that make up his skeleton had recalled the day he  _ salivated  _ for the taste of FLESH. Yet, it would swell with the  **distorted image** of Mischa echoing every corner of his world; beyond him,  _ beckoning _ . Becoming reasons and thoughts which should and shouldn’t be. He collides aspects of life he knows he deserves and could have. This  **belligerent, broken breath** , inhaled and exhaled with calculated measure, charges and forgets. And when physical  _ weight  _ and  _ exhaustion  _ seeps into his heart, there will be days when everything feels vastly different and those little feelings from before don’t make his heart to race anymore. For his mind is **glass shards** ; reflecting and scraping at the front of his subconscious with the thoughts of HER. BITTER, like ice -  _ biting and blind _ . And through the teetering and dazzling obscurity, the tumultuous surge of heat instantaneously stiffen his erection as the faucet breaks. The aching, engorged crown stinging with scalding spill underneath the temporary prison still holding his sanity in place.

 

The silken button-down immediately tearing and scattering down in fragments of frayed threads, along with flying buttons clattering upon the creaky hardwood, protesting furthermore with the two men’s combined weight. Each forceful tug of the fiber takes chunks of his floating consciousness along with it. Nigel plunges further into the imminent physiological needs, the pent-up arousal too great to resist. The burly vehemence of a man’s clothed body entraps Nigel between the chilling froth of flaring appellation as his spine sharply arch like a strung-up bow. As the drug conducts the  **whole orchestration** upon his limbs and every stretch of his nerve endings, he would surrender between the coarse gravel of chipped paint that seem to ooze endless amount of stale smoke and abomination of grease and revolting spews of bubbled blood permeated through the cement.

 

His stubborn cling to the reality ends there, as the last whooshing sensation sweeps him across the room and lids flutter shut like flapping wings of the wounded prey, caught in the unforgiving and merciless talons as the blood pours out. Before the world begins to slant and becomes an inextinguishable milky way full of hurtling celestial bodies and bleeding colors, Nigel is completely stripped bare with only rag of his shirt draped over his torso. An unstoppable tremor spikes him in  **petrification** , causing his length to leak more sticky fluid against his will.

 

The wretched and wrecked tight coil widens without no resistance as humiliating moans and urge to have his bottom filled overrides any remote desperation. Once past the constricting dry walls, the friction feels like a drag upon the barren fragments of sharp glass, as the sense to perceive pain deeply etches upon Nigel’s face, looking more like in  **incorrigible ecstasy** . Further parting his legs to accept the other’s length yet, he shows a hint of submissiveness through gritted teeth as a series of moans slip through the spikiness of his throat. That damned fringing silk serving as a line that manifests his unconcealed form to be like a puppet under a puppeteer’s unforgiving maneuver.

 

Underneath the man’s sneering domineering position, a smirk etches upon the corner of his mouth as he holds the grip of Nigel’s revolver from his curved spine as the muzzle aligns with the dimple of his back. Disposing what it could be a threatening weapon, although Nigel’s too sloshed up to do anything remotely resist what comes to him, he discards the weapon by placing it near the closed door frame, in the shadowy corner where it wouldn’t be visible. He feels Nigel’s already hard erection give off that familiar odor. The deep, tacky musk clinging upon the skin and exudes through the ambiance of the musty interior. 

 

Mischa’s star-shaped hand  _ fluctuates  _ beneath his expansive viewfinder. As if  _ mocking _ ,  **apparitions** of static images merely floating upon his conscious as desolate helplessness as he bleeds emotions, lest he does not shed much tears. For his tears had been used up by others already,  _ those fucking hillbilly bastards. _ No glimpses of hopes or promises or even untainted truths remain as his head is held low. For the  **ravaging storm** had washed him clean, yet the winds howled and stripped and tore through him furiously and viciously. With the air funneling up, passing like a shadow through the rehearsal of his vocal cords, up into his mouth, tongue and lips before being garroted by thin, taut wire of his mind severing and plunging into his weakened flesh. 

 

As searing pain rushes to brew upward from within, concurrently, the force of rushing blood works against the acute drumming suffering as the despicable arousal onslaughts his  _ taut _ ,  _ petrified  _ body. As soon as the surge of subjugation completely overwhelms him, the man is already pulling away from him with a choking grasp and a distinctive teeth mark underneath the gleam of his perspiration as scalding liquid brims over his diaphanous whiskey gaze. Spurted amalgamation of blood and release, spills forth between Nigel’s legs like an  **erupted volcano** , magma free flowing along with his  _ untouched, body-wrecking overflow _ . The assailing assault continues even after staggering orgasm, as their merged form continues to slither and rut away in a fierce, frenzied and **malignant act** . Sinking into the quagmire of humiliation of his sleazy release and scalding blood continuing to pool underneath his inner thighs, his zoned  _ nonchalance  _ sketches through Nigel’s unreadable expression. Through  **fading cognizance** , he feels the unbreakable pulsating spasm still course through the angrily protruding cords and veins of his debauched body.


	5. Chapter 5; Flatlined beneath the tangible world weakened by strident silence

No world is going to comfort him as the imprint of his back curls.  _ Unloved _ ,  _ neglected _ , left beneath the unbearable memory of an unforgettable time. He couldn’t ever recall the time he had been breathing an open sky, as he remains buried beneath the long grimed black locks, mimicking the shadows of such distant, disparate world from what he used to perceive; and he remains  **disfigured** ,  **mangled** as he barely leans against the  _ drab monochromatic carpet _ , with his wounds leaking blood. He either stays beneath the toxicity that would further consume him until there would be no turning back, or he would forfeit and liberate himself when he still had a half-wing, to prevent his heart from being  **ravenously devoured** . He would refuse to be used up and watch his trust crushed to pieces.

 

No heart would ever pass through this  _ unscathed _ as he pushes his palms into his scorched eyes, welcoming the darkness and letting the ravaged world unfurl into his galaxy. He encourages the strident SILENCE; blocks every damned fucking else out. All he does is to  **breathe** , the sound of fluttering ripples of air rushing through his lungs and desiccating the chambers of his lungs parched. Like the winds howling and stripping him clean and tearing all the emotions from his bones, minus the  **desolation** , all the  **emptiness** presented after the vicious and furious conflagration radiating from beneath his skin. 

 

Cotton-mouthed, blurry-eyed with one night stand of stars lost beneath his inhibition, the world and his heart reduces into a  **timebomb** ,  **defused** in his sweaty palms. The world itself close to being sewn shut as the lucid clarity sedates beneath the stretching colors. Like smeared blood against the walls, as his own existence becomes a distant thing - a fucking speck in a **craggy landscape** ;  _ a waving hand in a muddy fog _ . That’s what Nigel Lecter’s world constitutes as. And his gaze becomes the remainder of the tepid alcohol languishing in the flask of his eyes, as they become veiled off beneath the lost silhouette of love, as burned photographs become wedged into the yellowed corners of his thoughts. He refuses to settle for cemented happiness, if there is an ounce of happiness beneath the glass corridors where mold is hidden, where he feels the cracks of his suffering. When empty phrases stretch into **harrow insomnia** , that’s when all the dismembering begins, his blistering heart seeking  **paranoia** . For it is all he has left. 

 

**Murmur** ,  _ hazy, cacophonous _ murmur paints the room; its music loud and brave. He moves closer through the brisk,  **tempered silence** . SHE traverses through the resting town, glimmering in radiant sparks of unperturbed snow crystal granules, akin to Hannibal’s shattered teacup fragments somewhere over the transatlantic horizon. There, through the pit of bones, PARADISE becomes  _ lost and found _ \- right off the  _ palisade _ . His heart taking a peek at his whirlwind as his soul paints with poetry in the RAW. They would be together forever; drawn together by their drawn gravity, lost dancing among the inky darkness and embedded stars, forever  **drifting** and  **unhappy** and  **discontent** .

 

Somewhere amidst the decaying teeth and the flowers of satin, there his  **pendulous conscious** echoes; with a tune he hadn’t heard in awhile. An old  _ heirloom _ , an old  _ souvenir _ , an old  _ keepsake _ . How the waves of its sound forms gentle ripples on the surface of his bones, the sensation aggravating and intensifying with each acerbating undulation. Its peppermint melody entering every pore of his skin as the constellations of the sky diminishes away. His head had found the abysmal void, the  _ binding illumination  _ etched upon the echoing arena of his skull as he plummets into the **vast, blue oblivion** . And yet…. The remnants of loving-kindness color his countenance, even here, even now, beneath the repulsive tang of sour bitterness encasing him to plunge beneath all things sinful and deadly - and how the melody of lightwaves,  _ contorted  _ and  _ distorted  _ beneath the lulling fixated hazel gaze - crashes against his tide.

 

And he cannot differentiate from words and images, astraying that trying to make an art out of dying as his hands go wander for something to rend skin. Most of all, his breathing feels like such unnecessary work and his mind drifts somewhere between fog and lucidity and ambles along amiably enough, until it circles, circles, circles around violent impulses. And how his immovable, petrified body goes through the motion of  **attentiveness** and  **oblivion** . Rendered a skinny, smiling, placid marionette of a young man drugged to fucking high heavens still isn’t quite deserving of good things of attention or dare he fucking say love. His  **loneliness** , hungry as it is for an  _ indomitable  _ concept, he continues to regress back to his past life, as he fills his lungs with poisons.

The very act itself would tear an **irreparable damage** to his bleeding heart, already shattered and ripped into pieces. He had vowed to never dive head-first into such _ reckless abandon _ as he approached everything with all-or-nothing attitude. As he couldn’t make head nor tail of the path of his life, he works as if there’s no tomorrow. For the outline of his sea’s salt would remain where Mischa’s body would lay - and he’s choking on his vomit, with his mouth buried beneath the dark sand and gravel. His teeth scraping against the cold grains of the cement; his withering form mimicking her long-withered form as a  **manifestation** of dying ROSES perfuming his own gaping soul, stitched  _ once, twice, over and over again _ . His body lies in bed, like a  **dishonest gesture** . No lovers beneath the old, tattered mattress reeking of sour bitterness. And such impressions don’t stay still; for his developing frame is embedded with such manifestations of heaven and hell. A  **fornication’s spell** spilled into the depths of the night as his eyes would bear all the darkness, with a storm within his bones; one that would contain both chaos and fleeting calmness. He is a fucking PARADOX, immaculately perceivant and sharp one moment,  _ delirious  _ and  _ heavy _ , with a brittle rock of a heart  _ crumbling  _ beneath the onslaught of shattering impales most often times. As they become static and scratch his memory like an LP. He is less of a flesh and bone, more of tainted memories and dreams and fantasies with  **rotten reality** ; yet, what is living inside of his head couldn’t be worse than his reality.

 

The water cracks on his skull and the sky blinks several times; yet it does not collapse nor rain down upon his inevitable decisiveness of his tragedy. It may scrape and scald, causing numerous abrasions against his skin in a slow, caustic and  _ irreparable  _ BURN. A slowed death, as his eyes would reflect the stars through the smoke-filled sky as the wind howls like a BANSHEE’s call. Wind chimes against the desolate drab concrete jungle, made of the  **innards of some killed creatures** in his mind; clattering and rattling and singing an obscene song of their own. Such validity of his life had been spilled, a  _ commingling  _ of red and black that vortexes around the eyes of his skull. Like a maelstrom pulling him into the arms of another.

 

Familiar memories manifest as the forest’s music chugs along the track of his brain. The world refused to remain quiet and he BURNS, like **incarnate of fire** . The roaring cascade of the world resurgences from his core and all the flaring nerve endings yank him back to his reality. He’s blind to the pit of bones, the dribbling blood, the velvety caress of coolness of Mischa’s skin against his veined one. And the rain of the world constitutes as a warm, beating hammer against his throat as bile pounces and threatens to unzip his guts. And beneath the vice of the coursing chemicals, his ravaged body makes the last of its valiant attempt. As bile ejects, beneath the silent, dark and cold night. As a restless shadow of his form, a lonely soul thrown beneath the cacophony of involuntary chasms. The point of the sword digging deep, burrowing a small niche for itself as the immovable ground as of before parts for a path of crimson, dripping down the corner of his lips.  

 

Through the dichotomy of pain and pleasure, Nigel bites into the most forbidden fruit of all; and the taste of it never leaves his mouth. How such  **possessed strength** that had propelled him out of sempiternal darkness gnaws through his haunting dreams, in the artifice of tethering love in a world obsessed with pain and hurt as such revelation holds the power to seize him in paralyzation. A jolting sensation resonates from his spine, but his gaze remains  _ unperturbed _ , immobile as if a static electricity had frozen the concept of time. And he deals with days and nights with determined resilience, even when the hollowness splits him wide open and the mornings become so excruciatingly difficult to fight the tide of torporous tiredness and irreversible cravings following thereafter. The sunlight becomes the drowning ocean, as vehement beacon of light shines down the treacherous waters of his writing form. He retains all the fieldwork of muscles, with all the intricate indentations of hardened, sun-kissed skin. All bone and muscle and sinew compacted beneath the wretched stretch of time. And he would continue to hold his strength, his brand of darkness in the City of Light, for he would not subdue beneath the vortex of life-sucking synthetics. How the blue walls comes crashing, his melancholic blue aura turning onyx black. He would break free of this illusion, a hallucinatory lie with determination. 


	6. Chapter 6; Dubbed City of Light is as equally and exquisitely wretche

**** Nigel Lecter’s form still holds muscular and tanned form, wiry in strength, with the  **prospect of violence** embedded in defined cheekbones and broadening shoulders, the lean, lanky six-feet of his entirety half chasing the sun and the other moon -  **ichorous serendipity** of emptiness spilling into his heart’s  _ atria _ , spiralling around spinal column, succulent sap following the vast veins. All it remains is the  _ pressure of carbon dioxide _ from his wildfire, saturating his being with **uncontrollable urge** . But he’s more like an already fired shell with a bullet casing left, standing like Canute against the tide. There would be no denying the imminent catastrophe swallowing him whole.

 

Wearing **paleness** and **frailty** like a ghastly mask that separates him from any others, his transformation begins with a shady job in the outskirts of Bucharest. Flickering lime green neon sign from the acid desolate club continues to rile him up, which hangs crookedly, its grimy and exposed wiring threatening to poke through his threadbare garment with one single wrong move. And he’s veiled in the _hurt_ and the _healing_ that would come from the incessant violent rains. For he remains the **calm after the** **chaos** \- for he would endure this pain to become harder against all the hurting. He would become solidified, shining and impenetrable against it all.

 

He had been intoxicated in  **flaring anger** and morose  **disquietude** , all the grit of truth, egging on his raging fire flowing through his veins as his almost-death continued to jab through the creases of his brain.  _ So who would ever give a fuck if he got the most promiscuous and oversexed tattoo of all in such foolhardiness?  _ The ambiance looks so full he could get lost in - chaotic and endless and full of possibility and wretched glimpse of hope and anything that’ll fit as he would continue to be a **lawless delinquent** . And his ambition would be like a bowl that has no end - full of deep and dark water. He swallows it down as he feels the alcohol leaching into the pores of his skin as  **endless jabbing needles** from the automated tattoo gun deposits beads of ink into his skin, just over his  _ defined _ ,  _ prominent  _ muscle over the artery. Sitting still, what would be an  **unbearable pain** to some, merely reduces to an obligation to turn himself into the  _ unrefined brute _ ; something that diverts him from the Lecter lineage. He would slip beneath the darkness like the way the sun hides behind clouds, except he would never come out. For  _ tenderness  _ and  _ vulnerability  _ had caused him to pay so much more than his conscience and life itself.

 

And he would eventually find himself in a desert of  **perpetual temptation** of amoral violence, executing those who owed his organized crime syndicate as he would bear more _ wounds, scars, ongoing battles, wars, havoc, misplaced bones, undelectable memories _ and all the  _ unaccountable loss of beloved's  _ and his own **region of nightmares** . He could already see those faint luminescent glistening patterns of the wallpaper turn into the  **blackness** and  **coldness** of the outer space. As he hurtles through the unforgiving expanse where there’s no mercy for his expanding corporeality, constellations of stars wheels by him and his form whirls like spinning ferris wheel, gaining momentum as the boundary begins to blur. No tears, for he would already have tamed his nerves. For barely whooshed gunshots and flesh wounds that barely need stitching does not make him kneel against the desolate earth. Yet, how the spillage of blood becomes his own  **intoxicating addiction** . With his breaths brewing, with his  _ wildfire heat _ becoming the crisp of boiling water and the injection of savory.

 

Then he detonates like a  **ticking time bomb** , too imminently close to cause destruction as all the electrically charged particles reduce him down to atoms and molecules and stardusts. Aside from the black, translucent walls closing in from the corners of his eyes, each blink carries a dull weight, akin to the _ blistered skin _ from the sunburn slowly peeling off. With thickness gathered in his throat, his breath would peak, and he would CAUSE violence instead of receiving it, in search for the one who would be the one for him to  **love** and to be  _ reciprocated  _ in return, lest his heart bursts at the seams. To outpour love that was meant for him to partake.

 

Yet, he continues to live in a  **liminal place** ; he comes home to no one, as the cloudy skies barely let light in through the closed curtains. He undresses in silence and he leaves the lights off, while he leaves the door open so he could remain ever so vigilant, searching for any intruders. The  **topmost flat** is in one of the most busiest section of the Bucharest’s Lipscani in Sector 3 and the complex should be full of living things, yet he’s the only soul awake. He sleeps in a different room and stays on one side of the empty bed, full of scattered clothes and  **barren emptiness** . How his residence becomes an incarnate of humanity rotting in the trenches, such evil poisoning camps of corpses. It’s a terrible time to be alive; for he finds no hope or peace or kindness or love; there’s only hate and desperation and pain and death. With him transmorphing into some kind of a  **weapon** soldered beneath the wretched war as his entire fucking world had been taken along with it.

 

He falls asleep to the creaks in the walls and the beat of his own heart, for he has yet to find a home that isn’t the absence of proper shelter. He’d rather be  _ confused _ , fumbling and stumbling in the dark over the edge of the world, at the start of a moment of his  **developing, shaping world** . He yearns for love, yet it isn’t the place for chance and love and understanding - not really. He finds perturbed solace while he chain-smoked cigarettes, bulbs of street lights hanging below him as he’d daydream about turning himself into the cigarette ashes, dancing with sea foam, curls of smoke becoming lovers with indigo atmosphere as he would stage his escape.

 

Yet, such **vicious insinuations** of the only thing that he’s good for - lusting after pain and its retaliative measure to inflict further carnage - keeps him even half-alive. Instead of all the bitter substances, he would let himself blown with stagnant clouds right across his sharp cheekbones as flaring gunsmoke resonated, then he would cave in and over and over again, he’d cave. With adrenaline as his exacerbating addiction, all the unknown extraordinary circumstances he’d live through  _ eviscerated  _ form, manifesting itself into one of those big wounded cats caught in a snarl of a poacher, his filmy, dilated hazel maintains expansive as the hurtling galaxies explode beneath the vastness of them. Startled and spectacularly parched, he tips his head backwards to aid what little saliva he has to swallow, to quench the crackling inches of his coiled throat. Even the licking caress of the cool air conditioned, whirling and coughing,  **emitting continuous sensation** , however that may reduce to a white noise upon his usual healthy state, now it drills into his eardrums like a long, suppressed growl of the resting beast. He is rendered in strokes of **crimson spectacle** , full of despair for a war larger than the world itself. It’s grim and dirty and dark, as gaping flesh lining his left side turns his fervent warmth to rapidly burn like a funeral pyre. Perhaps the glinting silver of the knife had been a vicious sort of kindness - that will finally snuff his life for good. The current is still contained inside his viscera, for the evisceration isn’t deep enough to let his guts spill out as he would slowly meet his demise like a fish out in the water’s edge.

 

His willpower was a wretched thing; he still tumultuously feels, experiences jabbing and incinerating pain sweeping like a whirl of all-consuming wildfire and feels the adamant grasp of trauma; all the accumulation of fate and destiny and tragedy all the same, through every inch of his pulsing veins. And the first time in his life, he does not realize his affliction until there’s blood on the ground and tears in the corner of his eyes and an ache in his chest and looming loss and death shutting the peripheral of his sight to funnel. Perhaps he had been somewhere, sometime between the future and the past. He sinks and sinks, until he feels the mattress melt down with his  **smoldering heat,** and watches his exhales turn like a cigarette puff. His lips draw together as if he had one between his lips, taking an imaginary, deep drag, then feels his tense throat muscles ache with gravelly surface dragged upon a bed of glass shards. None of the windows are open and the lingering heat and humidity of the night clings onto him like an  **invisible cloak** . It pummels him to stay there and he feels the most delicate and almost fragile than ever.

 

Feeling the beads of moisture along his upper lip and the back curve of his neck, his head barely moves and his fingers don’t even budge with attempted efforts. He seems to ponder in wobbling steps, as he staggers around midst of nothing. His still heart pumps with the cloying scent of adrenaline, pouring and materializing into a deluge into his brain, synapses firing, the slender fingers tingling with the anticipation. When he pendulously sways between  **abandonment** and clutched  **survivability** upon his tenacious stubbornness, he would find a  _ divine silence _ upon a crisp open wound, still healing as his exhales skip. And the string of the cello peering over the edge of the windowsill would make his mouth agape, but the words would be gone, never be found beneath the  **exquisite serenade** , which would DEMAND him to live over the treachery of his carved flesh. And all of his madness would be subsided, just like that and he lets the comfort of his own bed and blanket engulf him as it turns into mama’s distant piano, as notes of Für Elise had once reached inside his chest and past his ribs. 


	7. Chapter 7; Hers is the name in the song which echoes in the space of his hear

**** Futilely quenching his resounding thirst with a hard swallow as his adam’s apple slowly sinks, the burn is even more so  **aggravated** by the gravelly sensation lingering inside his throat. He might cough up a tight elongated cylinder of packed fur, along with the whirl of smoke from the pit of his core as the torchlight  _ extinguishes _ . Eyes slipped shut, barely perceiving the world beneath the plume of thick haze as he drags his  **uncooperative limbs** as the ground beneath him turns into a sinking swamp, the mind continues to whirl and slowly spin like clockwork. Corroded and unused, the ratchet loose and hanging for the life of the existence. Like a music box’s notes trailing away into the thin air until it halts for good.

 

He renders himself like a **fading dust** in the endless black sky. The littered street lights still flaring, emulating haloes beneath the undulating haze that is his fervent gaze.  Bucharest remains within the drenched blanket of timeless grooves, crept in grimy residues of the communism’s past, slowly winding its way through the hollows and conflicts still, as the recesses of the bulky emptiness, swelling the despair further. Just like his own  **absoluteness** of self had once reduced down as his intense gaze muddled down to an  _ obscurity _ , the slanting crawl of the overhead spotlights waltzed through the atmosphere without him getting sloshed or tripping on his usual choice of substances. In a daze as the percussion of  **bongo drum** aggrandized in its  _ acuteness _ , the gentle reverberation manifested fully into a throbbing beat, reaching for its  **climax** .

 

He may witness blank days, or those with **overcharged sensations** ; all without _fervor_ and all without a _glimpse of_ _life_ despite him having misplaced such concept elsewhere. How he swallows starlight beneath the drenching landscape as his own pit of fire burns between his ribs. He has a long way to travel home on a dark road, without any guidance via a map or a flashlight. But he would always focus his eye on that ONE STAR among the clumps of black clouds. The futile drug would wear off and he would burst with such a **violent undulation of light** , brighter than an atomic bomb. Above the battlefield strewn with dead bodies as he uncovers himself from the ashes and decay, the comfort of **graying darkness** pulls him out for him to breathe. The room remains empty, as the flaring resonance of unbearable heat is what shakes him out from such deep **oblivion** , as the onslaught awakens his universe into existence. Beneath the _black cave_ of fear; the FEAR that he wouldn’t ever manifest through his desperation, his determined resilience to push through invented path. To concoct serenade of violence and power.

 

The city itself had been built upon the  _ faux-fabrication _ of a cultured city, but all it had been was dams of rotting hopes and bittersweet memories. Clinging to something that used to be remarkable and flawless, but now only sitting molded and rotting in putrescence. How  **perfect** had it been, for a  **wounded beast** like him to reside beneath the twang of long-winded explanations, followed by  **suffered afflictions** that would inexplicably swallow him alive. No one ever dared to prod him about  _ Mischa _ , another subject that would scourge this  **cursed** , yet  **superior bloodline** . How it stirs the relative calm of his meadow, a gentle breeze gradually picking up to accumulate into a vortex of a tornado.

 

His world isn’t ready to be taken, for the songs his soul is weaving when they had been tangled and frayed at the edges threaten to expand and further thin somewhere his ribcage, but this is all the risk he’s willing to take. How it tempers his heart with further pain, yet becomes an  **improvement** . The grief at the loss of this particular moment in time becomes more profound than any other frozen moment in time, as he would tear his skin trying to unravel the patterns the cello player traced on his body. And in his heart, there lies a dream, and in every dream a song, and in every song there’s a name. He shall find that out sooner than later. For Gabriella Ibanescu’s name becomes  **his beloved** \- for hers is the name in the song of the dream, which  _ echoes  _ in the space of Nigel Lecter’s heart.

 

Beneath all the twisted and tangled, all knotted and bent reality, he would find strength, _ little by little _ , as tunes weave an infinite pathway through the matter of his body and mind. Instead a  **familiar abyss** , his attention divulges to the calming music that speak  **kindness** and  **generosity** . Its poignancy much better than any other memory he retained, its potency much more effective than any ointment or salve applied to soothe his simmering flame, alight even in his dormant dreams. A weary traveler finally able to breathe with such  _ pristine gleam _ of his animal eyes, as the vivid steam quells beneath the cool early autumn air of September.

 

Instead of an ominous gauzy presence around his mind, around his shoulders, and being stuck between the real and the hope slowly enveloping in some weird insidious way until he remembers it actually sunk its roots into him so long ago, he cannot differentiate its veins from his. How his eyes stray beyond the preventing walls as he would find excessive strength he didn’t know he had in him. Each extension, each stretch of his body is effortful, yet his stemmed strength would carry him forth when the  **thudding reverberation** of the pain becomes less,  _ even less _ , and diminutive until he’s able to walk upright with the bravado of a charmer.  Beneath the onslaught of trying to make an art out of dying, all he hears is the same melodious tune of the low-tuned cello, immersed and plucking him out of fathomless pit of his demise. Hands of an amateur, shoddy and crude stitches still visible through the  **distorted edge** of the discolored skin. A hand smooths over the bandage, full of pus and sweat.

 

Tainted and soiled as his gaunt form situates in the quiet corner of the cafe. How he had missed his favorite comfort food of all. A heaping bowl of Romanian meatball soup with a generous squeeze of lemon along with strong and bitter coffee in front of him, he savors the delectable and contrasting aroma of two, waltzing in front of his nostrils before he takes a slow and rattling inhale. Every single breath reminds him about his mortality and the searing pain he had endured.  _ Just like how he’d always did. _ Then, the original composition cuts through all the bustling noise of the small group of crowds, gathered around to listen to a woman play the cello. With the late afternoon sunlight basking and heating his back as he gets caressed by the enveloping warmth, increased by the quiescent and smooth sound of the  **violoncello** . The profile of the woman obscured by blinding light and passerby cluster, growing as the the tune reaches its climax. Heavy lashes close as his slouched form straightens, taking a long and slow sip of the coffee as he imperceptibly sighs.  _ I fucking have to talk to that girl. She saved my life.      _

 

“It is a universal rule that when someone saves your life, which you have for me, you are then responsible for that person forever.” In that very moment, with all the good things and attention or ( _ darehesayitlove _ ), with a flower in his hand extending beneath the fiery lock of Gabi’s hair, he bemusedly listens to her talk. “Your playing saved my life.” He would confirm what she believed in about herself and her skillful ability with his simmered, smoky voice with a low laughter. For her  **hands** became a  **continuation** of her soul. Without the  _ trifecta  _ of his essence, signifying his blackened soul (guns, drugs and money), she would become as addicted to Nigel as she did with her music. A girl drugged to high heaven as  **gravitation** , coalition would kindle and rekindle to vanish a glimpse of building feelings on ruins as he would become utterly ensorcelled in her, with her.

 

And he would eventually let her fingers run through all the flawed  _ edges  _ and  _ curves  _ \- and witness what she finds. Some nights, he would sleep cold on his skin and wake up with the taste of salt on his lips from the sea of his heart that had flowed directly through his eyes. Some days the sun would shine ever too brightly and with too much cruelty that it would leave his lips dry and chirped from all the  **nonsense** he had kept repeating. How he would suspend in the warped universe along with her, as this drunken slur called time stretches like nanosecond; each kiss that he’s allowed to give her,  **that he’s allowed to taste** , would travel in his veins and go straight to his heart and settle there. For Gabi is his salvation, her embrace his fall from grace.

 

He still remembers, when they made love that night after months of trailing her footprints, it was  **carnal, primal,** _ almost pre-evolution _ , but he remembers having threaded ever so carefully. Memorizing every inch and curve of her body and sometimes, when he would snap shut his eyes, he’d see them intertwined, sweaty, sinking down from the zenith as the whirl of her exhales, the warmth only sound in his room. How his heart set alight with life and bewitched magic.

 

So she will become his sun and he will be the sea; drowning and basking in their love and memories, for all the three years of **tidal washes** as he would continue to tug the waters close to him; to embrace her radiance as if he had been gravitating towards a body of stars. And soon, the whole universe will witness his  **unyielding love** as a cycle of rippling yearnings blossom beneath fireworks of his hands and adamantine of his bones. 


	8. Chapter 8; Such gripping irritation in a form of a runty cunt

**** A  **persistent ache** reverberates through him, like a series of murders he had just  _ executed  _ in such  _ exemplary carnage _ . With  **warring calamities** , gale force winds, fumes, mutated volcanoes, watching them guzzle  **cyanide of his bullets** , spitting out truths that rot the lips by rivulets. He must suffer in  _ reciprocation  _ as the monsoon river of sorrow batters against his ribcage, like bear’s paw clawing through each slatted rib. Had he collapsed in soft listlessness as his exhales drip heavier like a gas leak, the circuit might be blown beneath the lagoon of moonlight, as the rush of furnace heat unravel against his copper skin as it pours out.

 

How the force growls,  _ rumbling  _ beneath the imperceptible rise and fall against his sternum. And he resonates  _ indigo _ ; with his hair turned dark blue, a  _ cobalt sky _ blanketing him beneath the cocoon of extinguished embers. Perhaps they had been caught at the edge of his lips as he remains  **immovable** , but the imprint over his caved-in eye tells more story as lids become  _ red  _ and  _ swollen  _ \- perhaps a dying star had been lining his eye as it haunts his story. He doesn’t yearn, nor has ever required an **insatiable need** for reassurance draining the sanity out of him as the fitful sleep remains parallel with the passing stretch of night - anything that would shut his god-forsaken brain to be less overcharged, so the night could reduce into a somber landscape. Without  _ stimulation _ , without  _ Gabi _ , all the abundance of pain gradually  **stagnates** . He wants to take everything back so bad, for he’d wished he’d never let those bullets  _ loose _ , despite what those fuckers had taken from him shattered his heart like glass; his  **blood money** , sprung from years of hard work.

 

No symbolism could define the  _ ramshackle  _ of his being, threatening to break his masculinity as he would wear his emotions on his sleeve. All the agglomerating bulky  _ emptiness _ , aside as it continued to swell his DESPAIR further, their wedding had been  _ drastically  _ cut short; the ceremony, as well as the celebratory after the civil marriage itself. Only with them and the officiator on the ship as Romania is one of the few countries which allow the captain of a ship to perform marriages, which are then legally valid. On moonless nights, he swallows this very pill of **resounding bitterness** and mourns. He had felt a **thousand suns** on the surface of his coppery flesh from her touch, yet how he felt so cold as ice, cold as  _ stone _ , cold as a  **gust of winter wind** as the sharpness of his gaze negates his rapid conflagration brewing beneath the MAELSTROM in his core. It melts his heart and shatters his soul.

 

He would risk  _ anything  _ and  _ everything  _ to see Gabi once again; as his form would remain the  **fire** ; dark and angry, quiet and anticipating. Coalesced to become the shadow beneath any  **representations of darkness** as he would eclipse back to the familiar territory as his lungs burned and his body ached. The law enforcement couldn’t catch him; he wouldn’t  _ let  _ them. But he would always wonder how much longer he could go, before there wasn’t enough oxygen or will to keep him going. It was tiring; being a **man of duality** in a monotonous society. Tiring and stressful and painful. It isn’t easy being a target from the day he is born.

 

He does it for himself in his titanic ego, but mostly for Gabi; he’d reach the finish line and claim the prizes that awaited beyond it. For she was his  **soul-draining ephemeral sun** . He’d re-invent himself every day, be a  **phoenix** , be  _ ashes _ , burn down, resurrect. He would endure the clang of steel as his corporeality would resist a  **duly ringing hammer** , shaping the red hot metal of his existence as his visage would carry the hearty weight of love beneath the raging forge. He would manifest the ringing of the steel resonating with his spirit, as that would become a rush of strength, bursting from within.

 

For his life had been already sacrificed beneath the  **sacrilegious demise** that would instinctively send his conscious to be brutally broken.  He constitutes all the  **burnt flesh** ,  _ echoing shots _ continually whooshing past him; it was all he could hear and smell through the folded memories, though dulled with time. Even in daylight, with eyes open, he could still see the  **nightmares** that became reality in one point in time as walls of his reality crumbled with his iridescent eyes flashing. The  **mantras** of his love hovering around his thoughts like a  _ nuisance _ ; as a constant sound in the background binding him as all he felt was being drenched by the pouring crimson paint, pattering over the impervious windows of their unrealized love. And the rules of the **unfurled love** is changing; and he feels it in that part of his brain that goes dark. Now there are  _ flickering fluorescent lights _ and their ghost-green glow. The kind that would turn any sanctuary,  _ his office, his flat _ , the  _ hostel he used to frequent  _ when he was more androgynous and immature into an interrogation room. Not that there is much of a difference - the unfurling confession and admission, all the  **revelations** will eventually unwind its spit webs from the jammed aorta of his heart. And his irreversible obsession becomes a literary epic in itself.

 

How he’d trail every permeating scent of her and become blind and deaf to all the others. Numb to the sensations, tastes even as he’d receptively be ignorant of the thoughts he had not yet developed. He once had hoped that when he closes his eyes for the final time, they would remember him as  _ courageous _ and wretchedly  _ stubborn _ , not angry and dangerous; a  **menace** among those who live life less serious. Until it became a matter of life and death with sustainability and survivability threatening to sever at any given time, he thought he would question himself less. He’s learning to  _ ‘unlearn’  _ the pain and that takes loads more of fucking pain. He’s trying to build up on what hasn’t quite built yet, as he would crave the luxury of burning it all back down to something. There’s a  _ margin _ , this ache keeping him just above everyone else, yet his creaks continues to  **widen** and  **split** and he hasn’t the words to couch his dreariness in words.

 

He’s still exquisitely addicted to the white and  **unyielding stretch** of nothingness, beneath the FORESIGHT, the contradiction of such pain carried for life bleeding through his eyelids. And frustration and irritation seeps over every feature, dragging through every vein. He does not really like looking into Charlie and Gabi’s eyes, for they signify  **fervently blossoming love** . With all the knots in his body seemingly coming  _ undone _ , the world as an  _ Impressionist painting _ \- blurred around the edges, lacking detail as blood would drain away from his head as he would stalk them like a black leopard. His surreptitiousness only gone noticed by a resembling mixture of his confusion and fear; a war he had already won over in only hate and desperation and pain and looming death. It unknots the  **accumulated pain** , blinds him and the spaces between what he shuts away and his willingness to surrender narrows by a mile. The  **perpetual tiredness** consumes even his smallest actions in visions of completion as his hollowed gaze dances about in the middle of the room, like the women afflicted with dancing mania back in the middle ages; he will  _ dance  _ until his death.

 

The famine - the absence of Gabi’s love nauseatingly and exhaustively cause him to dissolve and become air. He may be vanquished, eaten, made for nothing and no one; might as well he turned into the shadow of a sauntering star, for the weight of the REVELATION sinks heavily against his fissured heart. It’s such a precise feeling; a crescendo that builds like a tear in chrysalis, with a silhouette ringed like rain amidst the colossal mist that would reduce his intrinsic philosophy and sustenance of a survivor and fighter’s spirit to become nullified. And he’s forever submerged beneath the rippling, iridescent gossamer veil. Without the strokes of his making, as a mystic whirl of obscurity and bombardment of blazing haloes and radioactive stream of technicolors drown him further into the depth of his abyss.  The distinct scent of gunpowder oozes through the barrel as it exhales a hushed huff and as he concurrently inhales for the last time. It seems to settle beneath his lungs as it suspends over the cavity of his squeezed tissue. Through the obscurity of  **cacophonous commotion** , Nigel  could barely make out the outline of the green cop, his perplexed gaze fixated to bring down the subject of his focus. He could almost hear the hushed voice breaking out of the taut lips, mumbling behind his own extended arm as the brim of my pupils widen.

 

How his breathing turns into thick miasma,  _ potent _ and  _ deadly _ than all the accumulations of stale smoke hanging rather ominously above his head like a celestial haze, no more frown would be etched on his face as desolate demolition deepens further as his heart slams against his ribcage,  **unsynchronized** with the cadence of his crackling rapid fire beneath his core.  **Statuesque** , extended arm whips a  **sentence** .  A scalding heat, salty tear brimming with effervescent emotion threaten to trail down his cheek, gathered and caught between thick lashes in a watery discharge. Then, it quickly recedes back behind his dead as still orbs, the  **gleaming intensity** , that little spark of  _ excitement _ he had been teased with swiftly draining as the tears splashed and gurgled over the hazel. As the last futile attempt to bring forth the slipping life away from the ephemeral world. The dribbling denseness of the blood manifests itself like red army ants crawling, silent until there’s a sweeping arm beneath him in a shape of a heart.


	9. Chapter 9; A vagabond wanderer stuck in an impasse beneath the universal rule

 

Leaving is such a hard task – it’s  _ hard  _ when he has no choice; it’s  _ harder  _ when he has a choice; and it’s the  **hardest** when it’s the **kindest choice** . His mind lives in a  **trance** , yet he has never been afraid of feeling lost. For he no longer feel the need to be found and by no means by futility. All he witnesses is  _ crimson _ , the color that had been long buried deep in the recess of his mind. He still finds himself digging deep into the  _ stained  _ and  _ neglected cemeteries _ of his thoughts to relive the moments he had gone through in different points of his life. Some are places he does not like to visit, yet more often, he finds himself walking amidst graveyard after graveyard, feeling the essence of his  **ravaged silhouette** lingering in each step.

 

This is the night when the winds of ominous death would howl on outside and as he lays quietly on the softness of his oblivion; he would remember the DEATH’s presence beside him while he starts to build his vulnerability towards a state of quasi-tranquility and acceptance. Although he would never admit it  **vocally** , there is a part of him that  _ yearns  _ for it dearly, a part of him that searches for it in the places he has been and all the people he continues to brush upon. Beyond the sea of faces, many would recognize his name and his scents; for his  **sad, glimmering eyes** could come instantly alive with  _ ravenousness  _ of a feral beast, with much more intensity, so unbearably capable beneath the  **frantic reverberations** of his fundamental flame.  The **shock of stark red** against the asphalt is still  _ warm _ and  _ thick _ like an oil spill, retaining the  **sultry heat** of the Bucharest summer. Like a feral dog sinking its teeth into his corporeality, he watches the sun of his striking existence go down in murmurs as its waves continue to split and break before his charged hazel as the sweat runs off him. The fucking rabid canine is panting with its red tongue rolling, as a continuous trail of his own crimson dribbles as he himself becomes an embodiment of a  **dying venomous snake** as obstinate strand of life slips away with a weakening breath. Perhaps he was already at the gates of LIMBO, becoming the oceans of feral savagery and death itself. He’s blooming and wilting concurrently, with every pendulous moment between rebirth and death. He’s both happiness and suffering; it’s only a matter of where he looks, what he perceives. When he perceives happiness, there is too  _ suffering _ , somewhere in the deep stretch of his spirit.

 

He’d still be as relentless and fierce nonetheless, while being _preposterously_ gentle as his heart still beats, even when it’s broken. For his departure had been an intended severance, his resurgence would be something like stitches; with a life beyond scar tissue as they may appear through the contorted creases of his gnawed and weathered bronze, the leaden pallidness of his sharpened feature that had long made the home full of **death** and **weeds** ; of his _severed memories._ But with every _sunset_ , there will be a redeeming sunrise. And he would finally be able to appreciate the fallen dew and blooming sunflowers breaking through the hardened earth.

 

The **inertia** of his state of being striking such familiarity of chaos as he glimpses in that instant between attentiveness and sempiternal oblivion. How his body immediately jolts and collapses towards the unforgiving ground like a **wilting flower**. Even after he had lost much blood on the swift journey towards **sinking descension** , the pouring cascade of blood drains from his skull and leaves the skin on his face as thin, crumpled and transparent as standard A4 paper. He could see his own pallid reflection as the tenacious strands of nerves would never sever. There’s no _wavering_ , sliding beneath the adamant grasp. He clings onto his soul with a strength born out of **etched darkness** , **violence** and **desperation**. _For he is fucking offspring of undeserved violence, living through the polyphony of desolateness and bloodlust._ There are still things he needs to know, as he still bears the traces of myriads of hands that had gone through his form, a **tangible record** of being held beneath the rain of sorrow, being unsatisfied, been unvalued, now about to be taken care off. The **detestable recollections** of all the weeks’ measure planted evidence still marring his skin. The force malleable and taut as a spider’s web. He could see that universal idea of death, that typical **gleaming dazzle** of bright white simmering in the darkness. While no tears as rain flow, his heavy heart drains it all the same. Sweet river flows and soft earth sleeps. And he’s SMILING, with his mind in overdrive, hiding the pain he feels in his chest. He has lost his words; he has readied a thousand word speech and he’s unable to utter even a single word to her. His abrupt partaking, its effect on him is horrendous and detrimental. For he’s the lonely tree in the clearing, mauled by the strong winds of typhoon. And there’s a thick stretch of molasses silence as he is ignored. He would not have minded if his heart wasn’t killing him with every waning beat. 

 

_ He thinks of the pestering, gaping gash on his side which afflicted him for the unforeseeable amount of time.  _

_ Of its resurgent life as if it had a taken a life of its own.  _

_ Of the gleaming silvery blade that almost severed through the vital organs and viscera.  _

_ Of the screams of planes of muscles as a strange chill went through the expanse of the flesh, becoming a intrinsic wildfire upon the trail of kindled fire.  _

_ The same way how the tearing bullet instantly fuelled a clump of fire residing within his insides., stirring and causing an irreversible dissipation. _

_ The smooth, well-worn trigger and the apt, decisive finger behind it.  _

_ The undetachable, tenacious hold upon the life riddled with destructive violence and mayhem. _

_ The contrasting sweetness and hopelessness upon his damned limp limbs as a fireball lodges deep within his solar plexis. _

 

With his reflux, even after his  **farewell** , would have enough strength for him to strike until the point of his death is  _ imminent _ . His muscles had already succumbed to the heavy weight of  **cessation of mortality** setting in. His eyes roll, gasping for breath as he gradually exhausts himself. Until his intense gleaming hazel meet his own as he glares even more fiercely. Letting himself free from the indistinguishable quagmire, a blend of heavy mist and his molasses-like steps become too  _ languid _ and  _ grueling _ . A minute pinch of his brows confirm how mundane a task brings exhaustion over his battered frame, emaciated over with lack of shuteye and solidification of fleeting memories. What it seems a lightyear away gradually shortens, the unreachable ectoplasm of unregistered movements is the first to register. The immediate connection coming together in an indestructible chain link. He had depleted the inhumane strength to seek what’s HIS, for the earth will always echo back the beauty. SHE IS BEAUTY. And no longer he would allow himself to be  _ sabotaged _ , yet such gleaming testament of his evolution  _ collapses _ , for its varnish thins as he sinks into the wilting rose-colored dreams. He only perceives, because he breaths violence like oxygen. His diaphanous irises growing even more brimming, the salty moisture pools as he sleepwalks through it all. He’s still not sure if he’s slipping off to the other side of the dimension or finally succumbing into a deep, deserved oblivion, of its nothingness. As he would run away from his demons, choking on his memories of HER, he’s being haunted by their unblossomed love still held upon the vehement clutch of his hand. If he hadn’t been feeling too fucking  _ inebriated _ with his own vulnerability and memories confining him, he would’ve had already disposed of those  _ Poliția Română _ without ever batting an eyelash - for he’s being haunted and rendered USELESS as waves of the past crashes him against the sharp-edge stones and razor boulders.  As the green specks beneath the hazel vortex, having swum further away from the realm of  _ permuting breaths as starlights flared  _ , exploding every inch of him as he burned out too bright like a stick of dynamite to ever be looked at directly nor too close - and lips  _ burn _ and  _ blister _ , with recollections of gunpowder past as he collides with pain. It’s the only thing that stays when he has been betrayed and destroyed. Alone and in the dark; how he craves the gravitation he’d felt when Gabi was near. He was born to be an  **ensorcelled slave** with the natural chemistry they had, yet she won’t even move a limb for him. Nothing lasts forever and life simply goes on; not the pain and not even HER.

 

The moon slumps, the beast within him still howls and the fields and the valleys of the Bucharest landscape still relent. He meanders  _ downhill _ , eyes continually ablaze as if painting a heatwave full of crimson, concocting fields of velvet as it fills his lungs for the last time; the red tickling, caressing, traveling further still. His tightly wound core paving way as he gazes upward, to allowing the last remnant of flames to lick him before he extinguishes into his fire - for he’s become too temperamental and just  _ one ignition _ would get him to break him into a million pieces, to make him shatter. As he gazes into **undulating mirage** , of its fulfilled life coming to an end, it aggravates him to pursue his thriving life with wild resolve more in return. Those drawn-out waking seconds stretching into fuzzy consciousness. Only coming to senses in only minutes’ snatches, before slipping off into a temporary  _ oblivion _ . 


	10. Chapter 10; Reversed sense of gravity in a losing battle

The only sensation that he is aware, painfully striking against everything else which mars the **sense of gravity** is his own fingers crawling, attempting to clutch through another fight. He yearns _another touch_ , for another reason to be blanketed by the rush of **stimulation**. For the bullet had missed the target and the inevitable strike of blade couldn’t find his heart - despite Gabi’s nail-in-the-coffin gaze, that **exquisitely unsettling** misfortune that would hurtle him into an endless stretch of milky way as his whole body slipped through this hypnotic oddities; for him to never reappear in this world again as he would be easily reduced into stardust, fragments of atoms and essential element of all things, constituting this fucking universe. No words will fall recklessly out of his mouth as the sun trickles in through the windows of his intensive care unit; and how that _dissects_ him further, as if he had been continuing to sever into fragments, until his curled arm over the faint beat of his chest cavity **sculpts** and **solidifies** , then scatters like a _moment caught_ ; held between the static petrification of moments like fireflies on the shutter shock of the most systematic synapse like reverie of sin that grins, passing for a veil and a crooked, lopsided reality beckoning for his sanity. For his sanity begins to chase every rise and fall, every twist and turn, tunnel and burn. A **phantasm** of his bloated corpse arises and will begin the chase.

 

Maybe his body and soul will  **align** again, but for now, he finds an  _ unreliable pang _ of stagnancy in the shifting uncertainty of his existence. Yes, there still are plethora of emotions; all the frustration, anger and pain crashing through the broken facade of his darkness of night. They would last just until the sun cracks the horizon and welcomes a new facade. The autonomy of his pedestaled thoughts crumble down. He’d strip of his crown, ripped off from his head; it may still be caught in his hair, yet he would have ripped it all out.  An invisible shackle placed around his ankles as his spine tingles with tenseness, the petrification becomes too burdensome and weighty for him to be liberated from. Now, the bitter chill creeps within his bones as the intensity grows even more despair as the time halts. He’s all wrapped up in the  **catapulted hurricane** of the churning swirl of the _ hydraulic dam _ , as the breeze threatens to sweep him off his feet into the very abyss he hasn’t quite returned from. As if he’s stepped into another dimension; none of the things outside the space which they occupy matters, or he’s in too much of a obscured haze to conceptualize it within his fragmented synapses and muddled memories.

 

He’ll still be Orion and Sagittarius, aiming for her heart, made of strength that holds his embodiment together. He’ll be the waltzing and dazzling spark of high noon penetrating through her emerald cerulean, deeper than rolling Aegean in the final moment of his life. Beneath the echo of his reeking breaths, as he had been forced to drop all of his weapons to  **let go of his smile** ; of his  _ fervent eyes _ , the golden hair that would turn into the  **swirling edge of the wildfire** , of his sweet, charred fragrance of his calloused hands, now softened beneath less-than-soft world as all the surrender had not grasped his heart. It remains too alive to look into his fanciful dream as he had broken the barrier;  **too alive** to be entirely human.

 

His power and resilience had been stripped and the coursing thrum of his steady heartbeat - albeit  _ faint  _ and  _ weaker  _ than how he had felt before of his life-force - and the rhythmic beat of his vitals expose and render him as being crushed. The nurses might have tried to powder him up, to fill in all the fissures of his heart. And despite being rendered washed-out beneath the onslaught of spilling sun painting him with the deep colors he once resembled, the cracks deepen and the powder washes away. For the transmutation of Nigel Lecter would be incomplete without the fucking love. He would rather be  **entombed** beneath the dripping darkness that continually lurk with the thick haze of portent malignancy, to submit like he had before than to be cheated out of his fate.

 

He does not strive to grasp such ethereal occurings of night, and would remain as a beastly feral creature of midnight with invasive hazel causing more pain and affliction than one could ever deal with. He would burn and burn and burn, like a deranged star about to detonate as it skirts off its projected pathway. Yet, he never blazes and fades away, because an individual like Nigel Lecter does not FADE - for he holds such  **immense power** ,  _ unparalleled  _ and  _ inexorable _ , even when he had been used and tested beneath it. For he’s made of xanthine; an exuberance in passion, a passion in the liberties. His heart wishes the same greatness; desiring the same conviction as he’d breathe with the sea’s depths - not only its gentleness like honey sunshine whose warmth would stick to his skin or a candlelight that would flicker behind the twinkling eyes in tandem with the beat of his heart, but of the world’s toil, as the very same sea will swallow ships whole, the winds will sweep the land arid.  **Turpitude** will tire from all the exquisite exuberance of its passion. The cinder tempests of his essentiality will match the jagged tendrils of ocean, blown wild by the  **upheavals** of nature.  There’s an increasing amount of fury hitting like rockets and causing  _ splashing _ ,  _ excessive damage  _ as it echoes within the arena of his skull. And he remains a thorough cynic;  _ tragic and young _ , believing  _ nothing _ as the wind would blow through the hole in his chest. The winter chill is emptying his heart in enough measure and no staggering peace stretching into the deep night would be so  _ palpable _ .

 

How longingness and loneliness turns to tangible ghosts. He wishes to deliquesce into the wood-grained floor trailing beneath his feet and evaporate into the pink clouds of sunrise. Just like the color of his healing bruise, seemingly dripping against the defined cheekbone as the familiar pinprick fils these _gaping vacancies_ of his mind with intermittent exhales. His head **pounds** as he bolts up from such _gripping_ _irritation_. How his balled-up fist quivers, along with amber rays flickering against his bronzed skin with such blistering heat. And **heaviness** sinks him down yet again, his conscious suspended in a void; the fraying body and mind of his is enough to deal with - lively, blossoming flesh and dribbled blood. Tasting ink and copper and all the words and people. How his essence WRITHES in pain.

 

_ Does he shake in need of holding? _ His teeth biting at those that try to reach out; he’s here, sempiternally, with his arms extended, refusing to hold any that reach out back at him. And how he willingly proffers his unshed tears to be shed, beneath the hardened eyes, beneath the acrid and cold air, the dark sky where the road fails to rise to meet his battered self to meet somewhere in-between home and here. The overstimulation keeps him wide awake enough, yet he’s so removed, so out of control with the **hanging darkness** . He does not fear nor resist change; the life motto of Nigel Lecter constitutes as this; even beneath the _ failed clutch _ of  **circumstances** , he will remain  _ unmoved  _ and  _ unbowed _ , despite having bloodied by the  **sacrament** of LOVE. His head should remain level with the world, while his knees should remain UNBENT, lest he gets swept beneath the unforgiving ocean at its high tide.

 

Yet, he had knelt, lain before it in  **submissiveness** and confessed his love beneath the tumultuous twists as he once stood upon the epicenter of the destructive storm. Yet, he would turn to face it, stand at the ALTAR of his sacrifice as rosy lips broke into a smile. How the waves of his charged emotions had remained active like deep-sea volcanoes; _ exuding, erupting, expanding _ as the mountain of his breath spilled forth, sifting through the moist atmosphere. As he was quick to offer such antithesis towards most human’s favoritism of contentment through comfort of quotidian life, he would rather flow back - bending, mending over like mountain streams, cupping water, sifting through sands. He does not  _ bow  _ and  _ bleed  _ in tandem with change and fear; it becomes what they are, he either accepts and prepares and matures, or he fucking sinks beneath such devolution that one would simply fail to hold on. So he prevails on, with his resilience, without the desensitization of memory that does not reduce the initial scars into a vaguely bitter reminder of who he truly is.

 

He recalls the pitter-patter of the rain as he had boarded an aircraft en route to Baltimore-Washington, as his  _ hot breaths _ against the window and  _ entanglement _ of his limbs as he contorted and distorted, too vividly clear in the back of his eyeballs. Those pass through as pins and needles intensify, he wants to shut everything off and let his body remain in an empty carapace. The torpor sets in as his usual confident stride  _ drags _ , without the weight of his fully loaded revolver offering a fleeting solace upon such trepidation. How he would and had go against the feeling that resides in every fucking inch of his own skin, for HER, just for her as he’d gamble with his own sanity and let every inch of his body whisper. He’s probably the only hopeless one that would become Gabi’s nonexistent ghost - to haunt her in her sleep and in her daydream, slip through the walls to caress her, to be in every wind that blow, to be in the every goddamn place her eyes will lay on, because she’ll be left with  _ no choice _ , but to  **remember** ; with such  _ rawness  _ and  _ realness  _ with ruthless authenticity. 


	11. Chapter 11; Ashes in his throat (epilogue)

The word  _ ‘love’  _ itself paints his mind with infinite words, ideas, thoughts and sufferings that need to be purged from the labyrinth of his cranium. For he’d witnessed numerous  _ destruction _ , destruction that he has also been a party to as well. How it could paint the landscape of his mind with  **immaculate hue** s, with all the beautiful horizon drenched in time and seamless colors. And he could be rendered in perplexing paroxysm, blinded beneath the grandiose magnificence of love.

 

In the outstretched mind of his, the door to much-abandoned and neglected Lecter Dvaras is covered in nooses; pinned with  _ primroses _ ,  _ violets  _ and the likes. It takes forever to get inside, for the subconsciousness of Nigel Lecter’s labyrinthine mind  _ supersedes  _ the tangibility of tangled vines and bushes blocking his way. The familiarity of midnight strikes and he’s still just trying to get to the  _ fucking lock _ , past the timeless engraving of  **heraldic symbol** of wisdom, cunning and mystery coils around his spine. It must be his  **transformation** ; reverting time when he had been a thirteen-year-old boy walking out of the  _ amalgamation  _ of his home, his  **catalyst** , his eternal pain embedded within the crevices of rusted gates and granite.

 

He would, along with his brother, “ _ walk to and fro on the earth _ ” and be imperially slim (both qualities of  **Satan** ). In the account of Genesis, Satan is said to have appeared in the form of a serpent. So the snake would represent not only the CUNNING and power of the  **Visconti** . a highborn Italian family name which their mother bares, but also, would contain the double meaning of referring to Nigel and Hannibal Lecter’s own power and cunning. Such  _ resurgence _ , IMPLEMENTED change exemplified by their status of apex predators. No horrible and pretty things would keep him away, though his key is rusted over. He had been in a drought for many years now - for he embodies the rusted darkness of EARTH RED, which dusts over his  _ entirety _ . And  **Mischa’s essence** \- becomes his  _ fucking noose  _ disguised as blossoming flowers dusts his hand and pulverizes onto the ground.

 

The  **unbearable ennui** sets in; so does rising magma of his anger, manifesting through the skin and muscles and bones, through his joints and eyes as the thunder’s pop electrifies him whole. As the true economy of the world had been instilled like preinstalled software -  _ predator and prey _ . If ever the world were to run out of prey, the economy would  _ collapse _ . Or he could be torn, struck down by heaps of  _ mercilessness _ , of its unbearable, unsuited will raining down, causing him to require stitches over his heart. And he would be utterly lost in a world, where his entirety couldn’t fathom all the broken constellations sprinkled across the midnight sky. With his soul  _ fragmented  _ and  _ ruined _ , he’d weep raindrops of tears and crystallized snowfall that will forever remain beautiful.  _ Would he meet an inevitability of mortality then? _ He doubts it as the breeze tickles his closed eyelids that hides his inner soul.

 

He had risen above those flocks of preys and found his stock of would-be victims to perish beneath the flick of his fingers. The menagerie would swell under the **iron-rule** of his loyalty, the club his hunting ground. Yet, Nigel wasn’t entirely free of such sublimity of the old estate - not even when he did not have the tumultuous tranquility of his strewn desk, with the thick, stale ectoplasm of smoke looming over like clouds. And how their parallelism concocts further upheaval upon the house, as if it had been a stipulation for his stay. Nigel’s suffering isn’t regulated as he would find rock-bottom-grief; and beneath the silence between heartbeats, his wildfire runs rampant as ever. Uncontrolled, furious beauty and destruction that would allow nothing to stand in its way. If Hannibal was to be the rain to extinguish his light, he would stop the clouds from manifesting for as long as he could.

 

The  **external carapace** of his hardened self is full of  _ murkiness _ , where the tall weeds and creeping vines adhere, along with the eternal shadows that would cling onto his form and become one. He’s not quite a  _ marionette  _ beneath the strings of the past; yet it’s tattooed all over his body and his mouth is filled with such potent scent of  **funereal pyre** . And the one thing Nigel Lecter would absolutely refuse is to start off anything in a horrible predicament due to the collapse of his family. How they have started with naught, then pushed into the merciless currents of life as they suffered numerous unwillful embarrassments and subjugation.

 

The LOVELESSNESS exemplified with  _ gnawing _ ,  _ undying flame _ and such paradox of rich scent emitting, cutting through the sharp gelid winter. It’s putrid, it poisons him and he cannot breathe. His glued mouth remains a perfume bottle, a perfect vessel for its containment. How it continues to plagiarize and project across the dark landscape of his mind, yet he would still remain immovable. Lest he perishes in the unforgiving and unyielding snowstorm, he would never step into where all of his history began, where wicked violence and bloodlust had became the blueprint of his DNA.

 

In the winter cold, where all that is  _ merry _ and  _ bright _ and the plain-fields of white radiate with such incomparable decadent glory. Each and every year as the moon falls slightly lower on the horizon, a wonderful turn of events take place. Lecter children delight as this swiftly tilting planet shed flakes of crumbling clouds of grey upon their heads like dusted ash from the fireplace, but much more  _ atmospheric _ and  _ expansive _ . There wouldn’t be no need for aimless worries, dreaming of a life cast in the rose-colored hues of afternoons as crystal granules bounced blinding illuminations that would not only lighten his darkened hazel, but warm through the chilled bones and marrows.

 

With arms draped and fingers clutched upon each others, the trio remains  _ frolic _ and  _ cheery _ , despite the agglomerating chilling rush invading them further and further like pinpricks, into their overcoats and wool hats. Warmth would remain an  **elusive, rare thing** , yet the bed of warmth grows like their covenant; no matter what takes, they would make a home out of each other. For hands can hold each other’s respectable heart (but Nigel  _ did not know _ ; that they could also break it). Withstanding the test of time as their loyalty would remain, along with  _ sustainability _ .

 

_ Could he hide from the world for a while? Could he crawl beneath the blankets and rest his hand in the hands of a ravaging karma? May he crawl inside its soul and turn it into his home? _ How it shattered them both when reality comes to reclaim the twins and when it does, how he breaks besides his twin with no barrier offered. The rain had just stopped, with the ground seeping his heaviness, the same heaviness of the orphanage soaks his entirety as the edge of the oxford click; serving as a grounded anchor beneath the pensieve of his mind. How elegant and austere it looks, with its grip and his heartfelt strangeness of the memory. Rewritten and dissected over and over again in wildness, becoming the predicament. Yet, he would continue to breathe beneath (the false hope of) sunshine. For his alive heart would keep continuing to share its music around the enlivened and further enlivening world where they can fall asleep to the beats. Just like his own body remains to be floating,  _ on cloud nine _ , leaving the deepest pain to be drained as their coalesced scents heighten beneath the lulling dusk. His head pounds as he bolts up from such gripping irritation. How his balled-up fist quivers, along with amber rays flickering against Hannibal’s bronzed skin with such blistering heat. And heaviness sinks him down yet again, his conscious suspended in a void; the fraying body and mind of his is enough to deal with - lively, blossoming flesh and dribbled blood. Tasting ink and copper and all the words and people. How his essence WRITHES in pain.

 

The  **paradigms** of Nigel Lecter’s control remains tenacious, with all the pieces put together with the courage of a lion; regal and strong, covert like a roguish leopard. His charismatic presence is commanding at best and forceful at its very worst. Even with the aura of a champion, negating all the parameters of his life lain with emptiness of hope, the vice-grip of Hannibal’s control is viper’s strike. Dangerous, yet infuriatingly ensorcelling, his twin’s organized and systematized mind, where each thought is kept in its own drawer or dresser where similar kinds of knowledge are gathered. Information is methodically observed after being inspected and carefully stored like ancient scrolls, so it could be easily accessed in the future. Nigel Lecter’s own is more like a radiant solar flare ready to erupt, for the fringes of his emotional control quickly unravels without a practical and logical approach, with an outstanding attention to details.  _ One day he would snap. _ And Hannibal would not be able to control his  **unrelenting tide** of emotional turmoil any longer. And he’s always likened to fire, for it will leave him empty, but for the ashes in his throat, even the greatest, most verdant forest will burn itself to the ground to start over. Perhaps beneath Hannibal’s flammable disposition, he will remain to be still menacing, yet his poetic destruction will remain beneath the embers in his charred palms. For he is born to incinerate. 


End file.
